


A McHeckin Wriggling Day

by apocalypticTaco



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Baking, Fluff, M/M, Meteorstuck, Oneshot, i swear formatting killed me rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 20:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11493708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypticTaco/pseuds/apocalypticTaco
Summary: You tilt your head to the side and evaluate his words, filtering out the main idea in the midst of extra verbal crap."Wait, It's my wriggling day? What day is it today?""June twelfth dude, pure honesty, no lie. Cross my heart and hope to die. It wouldn’t make that much of a difference since I’d just be alive again, but it’s the thought that counts.”





	A McHeckin Wriggling Day

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing so crits appreciated i mean like get me on the stake and roast me i beg yall but not too much im still a tender piece of self hating meat that wants to be roasted gently  
> secondly i know this is a month late but im horrible at time management so uh shrug i guess  
> thirdly i had to delete and repost this because wtf is formatting i hate html this kills me anyway enjoy this word spit

turntechGodhead [TG]  started pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]   
TG: hey rose   
TG: rose  
TG: weve been on this meteor for about two years right  
TG: wait why am i asking you for confirmation im the fucking time player  
TG: either way im pretty sure noone alchemized any clock around here except for the numbered ones we can read on our phones  
TG: as far as i know i see exactly zero of us bothering to wear a watch around  
TG: and noone ever had the knowledge or the will to make some sort of happy homey cuckoo clock in the main room seeing as they could probably just ring up your homie dave and be like hey bro buddy chum my homie dave whats the time  
TG: its exactly fuck o clock bro  
TG: thanks bro  
TG: what like nothing else am i just your time checker to make sure you arent strolling around at six am thinking its midnight  
TG: maybe so  
TG: what if without me every single one of you would have no concept of time whatsoever and noone could ever meet up and interact because while youre awake thinking its nine am and time to grind up some coffee someone else could be heading to bed thinking its midnight  
TG: it could happen you know  
TG: we cant deny we all have fucked up sleep schedules thatre barely holding together  
TG: those slumber charts are being glued together by the shittiest brand of kindergarten glue that doesnt even stick to shit no matter how many layers you put on there  
TG: the only use that the glue does is help little timmy go to the hospital and having his stomach pumped for eating it  
TG: we all warned you timmy  
TG: dont eat the glue  
TG: glue doesnt even look fucking tasty why did he even have the thought to eat that shit  
TG: timmy ate the glue and he could probably eat your coordinated waking and sleeping times too  
TG: and all of this couldve been prevented if you all just wore a watch and bore the answer to your wrist  
TG: point is to your surprise im not some sort of time genius here  
TG: you know i have a watch that i just look at and that solves my clock inquiries almost immediately  
TG: maybe some of you should get one too  
TG: we could get customized ones  
TG: you could alchemize some goth hot topic watch and karkats gonna have one of those animal shaped kiddie watches that come in fifteen different colors  
TG: the mayor could only have the coolest rolex watch ever for the best dude in can town  
TG: vriska and terezi dont need watches because terezi might just eat it to taste the time and honestly spiderbitch doesnt need a watch to remind her of her hourly need to be calling for meetings and butting into other peoples conversations  
TG: besides watches are only for cool people thats why im wearing one  
TT: Hello, Dave. Nice fuck o’clock to you too.   
TT: A watch would be nice, actually. Perhaps one day we could see what types of accessories we could all conjure up, and then have a mini fashion show with that.  
TG: sounds like a plan  
TG: anyway looking at my handy watch weve been in this flying rock shithole for about two years and weve made it our home like a dung beetle would by digging and building rooms in a big gathered ball of shit  
TG: only difference that were a big family of shitbugs and this shitball is a meteor and flying through space  
TT: I never knew how much I needed to have us compared to a family of beetles that eat and reproduce in shit for most of their life. Thank you for giving me what I didn’t know I needed, Dave.  
TT: Were you going to ask me something or shall we continue finding similarities between us and other bugs?  
TG: yeah we could confide in bugs later but for now i need to ask you the most important top secret shit thats more private than poohs lsd stash   
TT: I didn’t know Pooh did drugs.   
TG: of course he does he hides them in his honey and he sounds stoned af what other explanation would there be   
TT: Of course. I can’t believe I never saw that revelation before.   
TT: That also explains why The Hundred Acre Woods were full of talking animals and hallucinations. Perhaps Christopher Robin was just taking a drag and trying to reimagine his childhood days.  
TG: fuck yes finally someone understands  
TG: i tried to explain that to john and jade and they just thought i was being silly  
TG: winnie the poohs drug habits are nothing to be silly about  
TT: I agree. I hope they all eventually get the help they need.   
TG: agreed  
TG: anyway now that weve had our daily theorizing time i need to ask you something  
TT: Of course. What’s the situation?   
TG: i was talking to your vampire beau this morning and she mentioned that its karkats bday soon so im wondering if you have any experience with birthday activities or shit like that   
TT: Yes, I have, but they mostly involve me reading my newly gifted wizard book and attacking clowns.  
TT: However, I still might be able to help you. What question do you have in mind?  
TG: well what would you consider to be the type of shit to do on a birthday  
TG: activities that say youre my best bro and i care about you so heres the best shit that i could give you on your birthday yknow cool bro stuff like that  
TT: You can’t see me right now, but I’m wiggling my eyebrows in the most implying way.  
TT: I’ll try help you out, though. Depending on how successfully it goes you might just have to owe me one.  
TG: word but thats only if it completely exceeds all types of stellar   
TT: You have my word.  
__

__

Normally, it would be too fucking early to deal with any type of fecal shit, much less while you’re half awake and slowly rising from sleep. At least, that's your excuse. Half the time you're “slowly rising from sleep”, you’re laying in your coon at what’s supposed to be midday, pondering what the fuck else would be interesting enough to not make you go insane on the remaining amount of time you have on this speeding rock.

You began this quest to eviscerate idle boredom through reading and charting every group of words that even vaguely resemble literature. You've reread and analysed every aspect of Tharen and Rendus' sweet loving red romance, and awwed while reading the pale vacillations under your blanket pile. You had compared it to likewise dramatic relationships in other books, whose quadrants had ended either as sweet and simple or outrageously contrasting and dramatic than the previous. You've engaged and argued about such with dead dreamselves of others that have read the same books, and for the ones who haven't read any, you piled duplicates onto their arms and slipped in future argument sheets between the pages for them to think about.

When you and Dave had started accompanying each other while building can town, one of you would happen to strike conversation, usually starting by talking to oneself and having the other slide some snips and opinions in. Dave’s metaphors would be graced with your questions about wording and human culture, and in return you would get a reply of half-sensical history about Earth culture and even more nonsensical metaphors that would lead to more questions. And so, the cycle goes on. 

One day, the Mayor didn’t have any new projects for you to do. You had nowhere else engaging to go, so you had uncaptchalogued your book (In Which Two Trolls, A Loving Bronzeblood And A Jadeblood, Meet Together Outside A Culling Chamber And Work Together To Get The Jadeblood’s Respective Moirail Out Of Potential Trouble And Get Flushed Along The Way) and laid against the wall to read out loud. A few minutes into the first chapter, Dave had walked in, paused at the sight, and quietly sat down beside you. 

You pause and turn your head to look at him. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow in reply. “Say what? Dude, I walked in expecting to get my architecture skills all equipped and ready to build shit up like the sims. Instead, I came in and I saw storytime happening, so here I am, sitting my ass down and listening to the Karkat Podcast, audience: two.”

“I half expected you to start running your lips off commenting on how every other sentence I’d be reading out loud could be improved through your irony and ill raps.” He huffs a small laugh in reply. He looks like he’s trying (and failing) to hide a smile. 

“First of all, they’re my sick raps. There’s no word that’s ill other than my beats, and these precious rhymes aren’t getting any sicker than a cold with some medicine; no coughing words out here, these mouth babies are staying nice and healthy enough to keep the word action all dancing and raving all night. Secondly, do you want me to comment on your shitty choice of books? Because I could go on all day dude, and I’m just handing you the spotlight before my gorgeous looks steal it away.”

“Seems legitimate, although I’m sure the nonexistent spotlight can be wide enough for two blabbering idiots to share.”

That’s how you found another pastime to engage in, where you would sit on the floor and read aloud, and Dave would interject with incessant comments. When it doesn't end up in an engaging conversation about the difference in how two trolls settle on a quadrant, it ends up with both of you making fun of Shanil's pathetic inability to process any pale action and Dave building another can bulge to be taken down later.

However, sitting in this rarely used coon in the unholy hour of the supposed afternoon, not even your two favorite activities can convince you to move the fuck out of where you lie. Your palmhusk vibrates to your side where you fell asleep chatting with Kanaya (  Karkat Youve Been Telling Me About Daves Cow Metaphor With Increasing Typos For For The Past Multiple Minutes And Yes Its Amusing But You Should Go Get Some Sleep And We Can Talk About Sewing Rugs Later When Your Typings More Coherent So For Now Good Night ) and you shift your arm over to pick it up. The wall of the cocoon digs into your elbow while you ignore it to read the text in front of your eyes.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering  carcinoGeneticist [CG] 

TG: yo dude get up and get ready well be blasting out slightly over the top normal activities today over the metaphorical boombox   
TG: these walls will vibrate and the neighbors will complain because were twisting up full bass and plugging in the amp to announce to the entire population of eight what were doing today  
TG: and youre probably mentally shouting fucks at me the next rooms over and im not a morning person either but these activities arent going to be accomplished by themselves and were here to get them together and kick their ass into the checked and done section and earn teachers gold star  
TG: anyway see you there   


You think he could have at least given you some more preparation time. You stretch your arm and pull yourself to lean out, almost falling back down with your lethargic effort. The floor meets your shoulder and face as you gracelessly flop out of your coon and begin to look around for a clean sweater to put on when the rhythmic knocks sound through your door.

You stretch out your arm and grab the nearest article of clothing. It's a gray tshirt with a cheese stain on the edge, and you push it aside with a mental note to do your laundry later. The knocks on the door increase in tempo and you pick up another sweater in your vicinity. 

"Grasp your fucking hoofbeasts Dave! Not everyone wakes up immediately energetic and ready to jump out of their coon." You shout out your reply as you scour the new sweater for any mysterious stains. It's a wonder as to why you have so many of the same kind anyway; all it does is give your future self more clothes to wash and your current self more clothes to use as you procrastinate on washing. 

"For fuck's sake, everyone else is probably asleep excluding me and you, and I'm only awake because of your palm digits playing a whole rhythmic serenade on my door. Give a guy a second to find a clean sweater, and I'll go out."

Despite your requests, the knocking doesn't slow in speed in the slightest. Instead, the other pair of knuckles join in, making dave a full time beat drummer trying to audition for Alternia's Too Talented To Cull List. 

The sweater you're inspecting doesn't seem to have any grime on it, so you slide it on and run your hair through your fingers as you open the door. Dave's body leaning against the doorframe greets your ganderbulbs, and he cracks a slight smile upon you opening the door. 

"Afternoon, sleeping beauty. Or in this case, awakened slightly adorable troll. The town has been waiting for eighty years for your lazy ass to get out of bed. Not that I'm saying your ass is lazy, it probably got toned as fuck running around in your session, not that I know if your ass is toned or not, my eyes are definitely not scoping in on my best bro's behind, just that it's probably unanimously known that you probably have an, uh, ass. Okay ass, seven out of ten, no homo, not as great as my ass, sorta, thank fuck Rose isn't here. Ready to roll?"

You stretch out your arm to punch him in the gut, but your tired limbs are left to feel empty air as Dave steps backward. You step out and close your door and begin to walk in tandem down the hallway, Dave leading you to a place you're unsure of knowing. You take a few steps to catch up with his strides and tug on his cape, and he turns his attention to you. "Speaking of rolling and nothing mentioning my apparent seventy percent ass, could you explain exactly why we're awake way too gog damn early right now? Last time I checked, the Mayor didn't have any emergency to attend to, nor did we leave on a cliffhanger reading any book, so what's the special occasion?" 

He halts, slowing down his pace to a stop. He shows a face of genuine surprise, with his eyebrows arched above his shades and his mouth holding a small frown in confusion. He looks cute that way. You wish you could hold a mental picture of that in your thinkpan. 

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you cannot be serious." To emphasize seriousness, he places a solemn hand on your shoulder and turns your entire body to face his. 

"Dude, first of all, it’s afternoon. Not that fucking early if you ask me. Seriously, we either really need to fix your sleep schedule or get you a watch. Secondly, it's your fucking birthday. Or wriggling day. Your day of birth, the big b-dash-day. The morning in which you hatched out of your gross ass alien shell and bestowed your glorious bedhead and angry rants upon the world. You guys celebrate birthdays, right?"

You tilt your head to the side and evaluate his words, filtering out the main idea in the midst of extra verbal crap. 

"Wait, It's my wriggling day? What day is it today?" 

"June twelfth dude, pure honesty, no lie. Cross my heart and hope to die. It wouldn’t make that much of a difference since I’d just be alive again, but it’s the thought that counts.” 

You ponder on the difference with human and troll calendar dates before making your reply. "Is this in terms regarding Earth years or Alternian sweeps?"

"Well, right now it's in Earth terms because the Alternian calendar is confusing as fuck, but either way, we could celebrate that too later on. Nobody said we can't celebrate two birthdays in a year. Unless you'd actually want to do the whole thing on your actual b-day, we could do that and pretend this never happened and work on can town like alway-" 

"Sweet mother grubshitting fuck, it's my wriggling day." 

"Well, yeah, but in Earth time, so you're not going to officially age until a few months but yeah, it's your wriggling day."

"Oh my fuck, Dave, it's technically my wriggling day." You realize that you're gripping the hand that Dave's holding your shoulder with with an intense amount of withheld excitement, blooming in your gut and bringing a rare smile onto your face. 

You look up at Dave to see that your realization made him bring a small smile as well, badly trying to cover it with his other hand. Your gut gains another winged joy appendage at the sight, but it doesn’t last long. Dave shifts his hand so that it's grabbing your wrist, and tugs you forward as he begins walking at a faster pace than before. Your legs and lungs struggle to keep up against his long strides. "Hold the metaphorical phone and stop walking so fucking fast, Jegus. Where are you taking me? Is there some sort of traditional earth to-do list of wriggling activities to do today? Because I don't doubt you in your creativity, Strider, but there isn't much to do on this meteor that we haven't found out to do yet through sheer stupidity." 

He turns his head to face you, pace upping to a jog while he looks on back at you, having fun while you begin to run out of breath. "Just wait a bit bro, we're gonna be getting those boring ass wriggling activities and spicing it up so much that the ghost chili peppers would freeze up in comparison, because this to-do list is on the hot seat and burning up in the spotlight." He pauses to shoot a smirk at you, and you immediately dread the next line that comes up next. "We're doing this man," and silence from you ensues. You’re not sure what he expected; you refuse to participate. Dave slows down his pace and tugs at your arm. He leans backwards, close enough for your cheeks to touch if they were any closer. "Come on, Karkat. Do it for the moment." He whispers. You press your lips together in defiance and shake your head. "Do it for your best bro’s best bro’s birthday." You sigh and try to hide your growing smile behind your hand. "Fine, you irradiant ass." 

"That's not the second part of the phrase, Karkat. You know you love the second part of the phrase." 

"I won't be loving it so much with you asking me to say it every second in supposedly good moments like these." 

"Karkat, I'm dead ass serious right now. We can't continue this day without you saying that second phrase to kickstart the awesomeness." To prove his point, he stops walking and sits down on the floor. "No moving until you're saying those words, dude. It's the only way." 

You sigh and look up into the sky, wondering what horrid circumstances had to take place to have you say this out loud. You may be overreacting. Dave could be right about you liking saying the second part of the phrase. Not like you’d ever verbally admit that to him anyway. "Fine," you say, and you struggle to hide a smile. "We're making this happen." 

"Fanfuckingtastic bro, get on the birthday train and grab a glass of water, because we're gonna get chugging to our first destination." He stands back up with newfound energy and takes a hold of your sleeve, tugging you along until you're both back at a fast pace, stepping in tune.

"Now that I've officially commenced the sacred phrase to get things started," you attempt to begin again, "do you mind telling me _now_ where the fuck are we going? You’re leading me around like a blind cheesebeast with no sense of profound terezi smell in the dark, and I'm left with no context whatsoever as to what's going on." 

Dave shakes his head in reply. "Keep walking in the dark and be a blind mouse for a little longer dude, we don't have to go much farther and it'll be more fun of a surprise. What, don't you know how the main guy brings the girl around the city, going on a small adventure before reaching their main destination? For all of the romance movies you've watched, dude, I expected more knowledge of cliches from you." He leads you around a corner. 

"Well, excuse me for not being immediate in listing all known cliches in the files of romance. Of course I know the blindfolded adventure trope! It frankly surprises me more that you even managed to get a splotch of knowledge in that thinkpan of yours that isn’t a rhyming verse or music beat. Maybe all of the lessons we’ve been through have finally paid off in some progress in you being able to vaguely remember the structure of one! Congratulations, Dave, I’m proud of you. Have a golden concave pentagon as a reward.” Dave chortles in reply before leading you toward the end of a hallway split. “Besides, I'm more fond of remembering quadrants than of commonplace movie scenes anyways.” You reach where the corridor splits and Dave leads you down the left side before replying.You're starting to realize where he's leading you to. 

"No shit dude, I'm still impressed on how you remember which quadrant ships are in which movie. You're like an entire library file of polygonized matchmaking. Each drawer labelled alphabetically, every genre and quadrants of movie assorted into tiny neat slips of drawn on paper, shades of red and black everywhere on mishandled lines you call shapes. Ladies and gentletrolls, the inner romantic workings of Karkat's mind. Anyway, we're here." 

You stop outside a door that you know as familiar from the many times you spent reading on the couch and alchemizing shit. Dave goes inside and gestures you over. The common room is just how you remember, but the new addition of a wide plastic table and assorted Earth ingredients catches your eye, and you walk over to examine it.

You see a bagged substance labeled "Flour" and some more packaged bags holding crystallized grains. A yellow bar lies in a glass bowl, and you prod it with your claw. It sinks in, and when you draw it back out, it leaves a curved indent. Dave hands you a paper napkin and you gratefully wipe it off. "Dave, what the fuck is this?" 

"If you're referring to the yellow shit you just poked, that's butter. It's slimy and thick and apparently a vital ingredient for what we're going to be doing today." 

"Which is?" 

"Baking the most bomb ass birthday cake in the history of cooking ever. Gordon Ramsey's so impressed, even he won't be able to lay a sick diss on this.” He uncaptchalogues and hands you a white apron with the words “kiss the cook” printed on them and in smaller subscript, the word “OBEY” in Betty Crocker red. “Here, put this on. What’s baking without ironic fashion accessories anyway?” 

You slide it on and turn back to find Dave already displaying a matching one, with extra red frills on the sides. 

“I didn’t know Betty Crocker made aprons.” 

“Me neither, but damn if they don’t know what I look for in kitchen style. Look at this shit, I’m prepared to go on a runway with this on. I’m totally the best looking baker in this room. Everyone’s hoping to get a picture with me. No direct stares, please, I’m afraid my good looks might blind you.” 

He raises his leg out to the side and lifts up his shades to try and wink, only to fail. He continues pathetically blinking at you and you resist the urge to smile. 

“I doubt that. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen fecal waste that looked more charming than you.”

“Beauty is on the inside, Karkat. And I’m fucking fabulous. Maybe with enough work, you could be as beautiful as I am, inside and out. We could be two gorgeous bros, riding into the penis sunset with our wonderful locks and shared cape riding away into the sky.” Dave hands you a big plastic bowl and a small cup with a handle on it. "Here," he says, giving you the flour, "measure four cups of these and I'll start figuring out how to find one cup of butter.”

After an amount of time and mess, both of you ease into a wobbly routine. You read out loud the ingredients to measure, Dave hands you the corresponding sized cup, and you spill half of the content itself onto the table trying to get the right amount into the cup. Dave laughs at how much of a mess you’ve made, and you pick up some of the spilled ingredient and rub it on his face. He rubs on some back, you go into a temporary food fight before moving on onto the next ingredient, and the cycle starts again. When you finish putting all that you need to into the bowl, Dave’s face is covered in various substances, and you let out a snort. 

“You look like a grub that willingly plunged into a large tub of various substances and excretions, and didn’t give half a flying shit that they were covered in such.”

He shoves you playfully and starts pouring the mixture into a pan with smaller deeper circle pans inside. “You don’t look exactly like Mr. Clean yourself dude. You look like you caught the flying shit that I didn’t give and started wiping yourself on it like it the new beauty trend, if that flying shit was just a bunch of baking stuff all mixed and hardened together. Karen from the beauty parlor said they clean and exfoliate your pores, but she gets all of her tips from facebook spam mail and buzzfeed beauty articles, so who the fuck would trust her enough to use shit looking mix to use as a facial mask? No one, Karkat, you can’t trust Karen’s instincts, and then that's why that shit mascara exploded all over your face and covered you in disintegrated unborn cake. This cake will never get the chance to be baked and born, do you realize that?” “I think I get the gist that we’re food murderers, just because we spent at least half our presumed cooking time trying to see how much of these supplements we can put on each other than in the bowl.” 

Dave finishes pouring the mix into the strangely shaped pan, and then motions you over to the oven. “You can’t blame us, dude, what’s the point in baking if you don’t have fun doing it? I’m pretty sure John told me once his dad said the secret ingredient to a good cake is love, and this moment needs to be treasured and loved for all to see. Except Vriska, she can go sit outside in the time out chair to go fuck herself while everyone else can go and bask in this love.” He picks up the pan, mixture with paper cups now included, and you walk over to open the oven door as he maneuvers himself to slide the pan in. 

“If the secret ingredient to cooking is love, I’m worried our mini cakes might come out half baked.” Dave finishes sliding the pan in and you close the door and pick up the timer. “Vriska can eat the gross uncooked parts, because she’ll be pissy if we leave her without any food, but fuck Vriska, right? What number do I set this timer to?” “Fuck Vriska, she can also have the wrappers with the minimal amounts of cake stuck to it after someone’s already eaten them off. The book says fifteen, but we need uncooked parts to signify our love and Vriska’s pissiness, so thirteen might do the trick.” You set the timer and the room lapses into a calm silence filled with the soft ticking that counts down to tell you when to open the oven again. 

As you wait for the oven to finish doing its job, Dave gets out a wipe and wets it in the sink, tossing it to you. “Quick, catch.” It slaps you on the cheek, covering the entire right side of your face in wet rag. “For fuck’s sake, Dave, I thought you’d be at least decent at throwing shit.” You peel the cloth off your face and continue to wipe off any remaining baking materials left on your skin. 

“I am decent at throwing shit.” He smirks. “I was aiming for your cheek.” When you turn to throw your dirty wipe at him, he’s gotten another cloth for himself and is wiping down the remaining sauces on his arm. The cloth sails past him, misses by a foot, and Dave sticks out his tongue as it hits the sink. “Look who’s talking.” 

“Oh, go choke on a dick, Strider.”

When the timer rings, you have two mittens on your hands from reenacting a shitty puppet version of Dave’s retelling of Romeo and Juliet and were in the middle of arguing whether Paris had done nothing wrong. 

(“Deducing from how you told it to me, it seemed that Paris had genuine flushed feelings for Juliet. Juliet might not have reciprocated due to being in a hidden relationship with Romeo, but he still cared about her nontheless.”

“Dude, that’s what I was trying to say. Paris did nothing wrong apart from be a little creepy, but creepy men were kind of the norm in that time period so it pretty much cancels out. Kind of pathetic considering his fate at the end, though.”

“Wait, so we’re on the same side?”

“Do you think Paris did nothing wrong and didn’t deserve what happened to him?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, we’re on the same side.” 

“Wait, what happened to Paris in the end?” 

“I’m a fridge, dude. No spoilers and I’m all cool in every part of me. You’re not gonna find out until we get to the part itself.” 

“Fuck you and your dumb thermal hull.”)

Dave jumps up from where he sat down and plucks the mittens off of your hands to put them on. He squats down to open the oven door with one hand and immediately leans back so fast you would’ve thought he would fall over if he wasn’t still holding onto the door handle. 

“Fuck, that’s hot. Like me.” He pulls out the tray and shuts the oven door before dropping the small cakes onto a small rack.

You shake your head before replying. “I can’t believe you manage to find everyday cooking appliances to raise your ego with. If I went ahead and called someone a fridge, they’d be mildly insulted and confused. I don't need to do that to you. You call yourself a fridge just to emphasize how cool you are.” 

“It all depends on how you perceive the fridge, Karkat.” He says. “You might see it as potential insult material, but I see it as an awesomesauce box that turns out to be pretty fucking awesome when there aren’t swords stashed inside it.” 

After standing up to turn off the oven (imagine how disastrous and pathetic it would be if you burned down your home and transportation just trying to bake) you walk up next to Dave to peer at the pan. “I don’t think any of them are undercooked. Maybe we made a mistake in setting the temperature.” Dave sticks a toothpick in each one, and they all come out clean. “I guess so. Well, that means more cupcakes for us later. Let’s grab one and go.” You grab a spoon to try and scoop the best looking cupcake out of the pan. It’s warm, and you cup it with both hands. “Don’t eat it yet, just hold on a sec.” Dave saunters towards the door, gesturing you to follow with a brief smile on his face. “There’s one more thing for us to do dude.”

You hold your cupcake carefully in one hand and leave, walking behind Dave step in step as he leads you hand in hand. He begins chattering, smooth reverberating tones that drift through your ears, but your thinkpan keeps drifting back to your clasped fingers. His palm feels warm and comforting. It makes you kind of want to hold it more. 

“The fair city beckons to Karkat, please bring your attention back to the meteor.”

You snap your train of thought away from your hands before it runs them over. 

“Sorry, I got distracted. What were you saying?”

“We’re here.”

He stretches his hand towards an open door that leads to a very familiar place, just with an added flair. 

“Did you redecorate our movie room?” 

“Kind of. I wanted to do more, maybe add in some rad ass banners with your name and dicks drawn on it, try to discover how to alchemize some helium balloons so that we could mess around and speak like chipmunks over the next few hours, but then I wondered what I’d do in terms of comfort so I went ‘fuck it let's alchemize a shit ton of bean bags and pillows’ and did that. We could put them away tomorrow if took up too much space later, maybe greet dog Jack with a bunch of pillows to the face. Otherwise, this is comfort meter jacked up to a thousand.” You walk towards a small pile and take a tentative seat. You immediately sink into the cushions, and you’re surrounded by comfort. You don’t want to move. 

“I don’t want to move. I fucking adore every piece of this, Dave. I think my ass just fell asleep.”

“Then let our asses sleep together. Careful, I’m plopping in.”

He falls down into a beanbag next to you, sending cushions scattering across across the floor. You manage to grab one that fell nearby and lightly hit him with it. “Next time, maybe try not to throw away our potential chilling material five feet away. Fuck knows we need as much pillows in this pile as we can get, and your bony limbs don’t substitute the fluff missing from what just got catapulted across the room when you carelessly ‘plopped in’,” you say. 

You know one part of that was a lie; Dave’s arms may have been the humanoid equivalent to sticks with muscle at the beginning of the trip, but over time they started getting softer up to the point where they’re probably your most liked material to lean on. Not that you often get the rare chance to recline against them. The last two other times were when you lost track of time watching movies and woke up on the couch with a sore neck and your face half embedded into soft skin. He doesn’t need to know that, though. 

Your chiding gets retaliated with another pillow rubbing into your face. “Yeah, yeah, stop complaining about lack of cushion when you have at least ten more pillows around you. You’re probably the greediest pillow stealer I’ve ever met. Just the grumpy old troll who lives under the bridge, except that his name is Karkat and he lives on a meteor and hoards all of the pillows like a dragon stash. I’m suing for unfair pillow distribution.” He grabs two pillows from you and satisfied, sprawls comfortably across the pile and takes out a lighted candle from his sylladex. Taking care, he slowly places it on top of your cupcake and ruffles your hair. 

“Pillows aside, before we movie marathon the rest of the day away the birthday boy always needs to make a wish. Just close your eyes and think about what you want and blow the fuck out of that flame.”

You close your eyes. 

“I closed my ganderbulbs, do I meticulously wish for something aimless now?”

“Hey bro, the birthday fairy isn’t going to grant your wish if you treat her that way. This is the most important part of celebrating, where the star of the spotlight makes a wish for a unicorn or some shit and there's a fifty percent chance it becomes true.” 

You think of something brief and make a wish. When you blow out the candle, you’re not sure what you wished for. It was more of a feeling, mixed with a fleeting thought that you only had a small hold onto until it left with the blowing of your breath. You push it aside for now. 

“There, I made a wish. Is the birthday fairy satisfied?”

He hums in satisfaction as he presses the button to play another viewing of 27 Dresses (your personal favorite, alongside Dave’s choice of Good Luck Chuck) and you finally take a bite out of your cupcake. As the beginning scene plays, he leans back again and turns to face you. The light from your husktop dances across his face as he meets your eyes. 

“So, what did you wish for?”

“I’m not telling, that’s a secret. Aren’t birthday wishes kept secret anyways?” 

“Nah, that’s more of a personal preference. You can keep your secret though. I’ll probably find out what it is one day.” 

You both watch Jane Nichols dart back and forth between two weddings, snagging off pieces of the cupcake until the wrapper’s all that’s left. You both exchange observations and snippy thoughts, slowly ceasing into a comfortable silence, with only the movie audio left to make sound. Your awareness begins to drift, and you discover yourself blinking your eyes back awake at times. 

You’re aware of an arm against you. A soft, soft shirt that smells of cake. A touch of hair. A hand poking your cheek. Dave saying, something. “Hey, if you’re sleepy, go ahead bro. I ain’t stoppin you.” A pillow under your head. You are aware of you saying thanks, muffled against a hand. You think you feel it stroke your cheek, and a shuttered flash of light.

Before you fall asleep, you can vaguely hear a small line of dialogue in return.

_____

turntechGodhead [TG]  began pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]   
turntechGodhead [TG]  sent file checkthisadorableshitout.png 

TT: You owe me one, Dave. There’s no denying it.   
TG: fuck it youre right 

**Author's Note:**

> edit: okay thank yall so much for the positive feedback im yelling and its made my day and just in case hmu at notedchampagne on tumblr and once again thank you im dead from the nice comments


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